


Heavy

by livia_bj



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_bj/pseuds/livia_bj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles. Some of them post-Reichebach but written before S2 was aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> Contains lines from lyrics from The Rasmus, Lauri Ylönen, Bon Jovi and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Some of them are easy to see, others are hidden. If someone finds them all…. You can win… the Internet!
> 
> BBC Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Godtiss, BBC big bosses and many other people but not me. I don’t make any money with this kind of things. Sherlock and John belong to each other. The lines from lyrics and tv shows belong to their creators and writers. I just borrowed them for a while.

HEAVY

It was a really weird dream. John was in a pet shop, surrounded by crystal cages, animals watching him in silence while he was limping down the corridor until he reached the backdoor of the shop. He opened the door, everything was dark.  
He saw Sherlock, but in the dream he didn’t know it was Sherlock. Only a dark haired man inside a cage made of diamonds and gold. John approached the cage and slowly walked around it, He finally stopped and stared at the man, noticing his pale skin and his dark clothes. He looked up. His alien eyes pierced John. A couple of minutes went by. Suddenly the man broke the silence.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

His voice was heavy and full. It troubled John, not only because of its deep tone but also because somehow the man knew. He knew about him and the war.  
“How can you know?” John asked dryly.  
The man looked him in the eye.  
“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but not tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan… Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John was open-mouthed, but didn’t have time to reply. Another person came in and stood next to him. It was the owner of the shop. He knew that information without asking.

“Do you want him?”  
“Sorry, what?”  
“Do you want to buy him? Or better, I’ll give him to you. For free. He’s a pain in the ass. When I got him first I thought he would be priceless. But he’s not. He keeps on doing that, that little trick of his with everyone. He’s a freak. I don’t want him here anymore. I doubt anyone could want him.”  
John frowned.

All the remarks that man said were absolutely right. He was a military man wounded in action who, somehow, secretly didn’t believe his pain was a real. He was of course surprised, but not annoyed or scared. He didn’t believe that man was a freak. He thought he was gorgeous and awesome. He kneeled in front of the golden cage, the pain in his leg already forgotten, and held onto the diamond bars with both hands.

“Could it be that your curse is a gift?”

The Sherlock in the cage looked at him, deeply.  
And John woke up.

A glance to the alarm clock confirmed it was still early in the morning. He remembered his dream and felt disturbed because of it. It was bad enough having that picture of Sherlock put in a cage, but also hearing all those awful things about him. He felt a sudden urge to go downstairs and see his friend. He went down slowly, bare foot. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from the living room or the kitchen. That was weird. Silence was uncommon at Baker Street.  
Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch, with a book open upon his chest. John took it carefully and read the title, wondering how someone could find a whole book about bees interesting, he left it on the table and fetched a blanket. He covered his friend’s body with it and then took a minute to watch him. A sleeping Sherlock was almost as uncommon thing as silence was. A sleeping Sherlock was like a rare bird, if one caught a glimpse of it, one couldn’t help but stare.

The thought of the bird reminded him of his dream again. He felt something dark growing inside of him. He wondered if Sherlock would have ever been like a bird. Maybe when he was a kid. Maybe they built him the most beautiful place for him to grow old, but that place was anything but a golden cage. Maybe back then his gift was really a curse. John shivered, feeling the adult Sherlock in the cage still very present in his mind.

I will protect you. From what? I still don’t know. From anything. From everything.  
I will take care of your soul. Do you have a soul? Of course you do. I know it better than anyone else.  
I will… love you. I already love you. My flatmate, my colleague, my friend, my…

“What are you staring at?”  
John jumped, almost letting out a scream.  
“Fuck! Sherlock! You almost gave me a heart attack. Did I wake you up?”  
“Obviously.”  
“But how? I didn’t do anything. I was just…”  
“Thinking. It was annoying.”  
“Sorry.”

John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Life went back to normal.  
But later that day John found himself staring at the detective and wondering if there were times when Sherlock would feel like he was bearing a cross, and in if he was, how heavy was it?

“You’re acting weird today.”  
“I’m fine.” John smiled briefly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but for once didn’t say anything.

We fight alone

Sherlock knew he was growing fond of on John after the pool incident, when they slept together in the same bed. He probably made the first move, when he went upstairs to check if John was fine, if he was still there, alive. He leaned on the doorframe.

“Need anything?”  
John shook his head.  
“I will close the door then.”

But he didn’t. John looked up questioningly.  
“Do you… Do you want me to stay?”

John wanted to ask do you want to stay? But he didn’t want to risk losing Sherlock’s sudden determination. So he nodded instead.  
Nothing sexual happened on that night. There was no cuddling before falling asleep or in the morning after waking up, both feeling quite disoriented. They just shared a bed. They felt each other’s heat, and that heat melted their shared fears. They smelt each other’s scents in the distance. They heard each other’s breaths and didn’t feel alone that night.

But still, though he was barely touching John’s body, Sherlock was aware of the tension emanating from his own body. He thought of his feelings. It wasn’t that those feelings were there out of the blue. They weren’t forced by the situation Moriarty put them through. The seed was already there months ago. The flower, and he could picture it as a black rose, had been blooming slowly. And finally that night showed its petals to him. What Sherlock didn’t know was that it had thorns too. He shivered. It would be so easy to approach to John and really feel his heat. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never. He closed his eyes.

He dreamt of his mother, and Mycroft. About the day when their father left. Truth be told the man was only Mycroft’s father. Apparently that was why he left. He found out the truth. Their mother was trying to teach them a lesson from that.

“No one loves people like us, my children. Don’t forget it. They might show you they do, but at the end, we always fight alone.”

He woke up violently. That was the real reason he didn’t like to sleep. He hated dreams. Either they were weird and made no sense, or they were memories from the past. He blinked, realising then that the room was full of daylight. He reached John with his arm, but the doctor wasn’t there. Sherlock could only feel his cold side. He rested his hand there. It had to be like that.

CHILL

At some point during the first year he found himself in front of the street door, staring at the wood with a key in his hand. How long had he been there? He didn’t know. Maybe an hour, maybe a minute.  
“John?”  
Mrs.Hudson touched his shoulder carefully.  
“What are you doing?”  
“The door is closed.”  
“It is, indeed. But what are you doing here?” She insisted.  
“I don’t know what to do. If I turn the key to the right it will be opened, if I turn the key to the left I will lock it. Just turning the key separates me from the world. And I don’t know what side to choose.”  
She whispered a quiet Oh, John and hugged him.

On the second year he painted his room 6 times.  
Mrs. Hudson thought he definitely went nuts but helped every time. She was pretty good with the paintbrush. Even Mrs. Turner (next door) came to help once. She didn’t do anything apart from spread the gossip and stir the paint in the tins, but it was nice to have some company.  
One night John was using his blog to find out the different kinds of paints one could find in the market, when his fingers moved on their own and wrote what he really had in his mind.  
“And every time when I painted my room, like a fool I hid my feelings.”

On the third year he opened the door and sneaked in.  
He approached Mrs. Hudson’s door and knocked softly. She popped her head.  
“Is he here?”  
“What?”  
“Sherlock.”  
“I believe so, yes.”  
“May I come in?”  
“Of course you can, dear.”  
They sat in silence for some minutes. The landlady was watching Passions on TV, John liked it too.  
“You don’t want to see him?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“He told me yesterday you only slammed your bedroom door once when you went to sleep.”  
“And?”  
“Apparently you were slamming it twice just two days ago.” She tried not to smile.  
“I feel betrayed. Is it wrong?”  
“No, my dear. You have the right to feel betrayed. But now I think you should feel grateful.”  
“What for?”  
“He’s back. You have what everybody wants when a loved person is gone: a second chance. I lost a sister when I was younger, you know. I wish I had the chance to talk to her once more, to say goodbye. For the last three years I have seen your strength, and your pain. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t feel grateful for getting the miracle that every single person in this world longs for, having your loved one back with you. Back from death. Don’t you see?”  
John looked at her, tears in his eyes.  
“Mrs. Hudson. I gotta run.”  
“Yes. Yes. Go, boy.”

He stood up and kissed her on the forehead before rushing out of the apartment. She heard him running upstairs, leaned back and smile.  
She didn’t know the real reasons why Sherlock did what he did, she was still able to remember the river she cried during the funeral, and yet the words she had addressed to John were truth. And beyond the confusion, the only thing she could express was gratitude for having him home again. 

And that night Mary dreamt of her sister for the first time in years. They were kids playing in the beach. Splashing water at each other.Running and laughing. It was a nice dream, and by the end of it they said their farewells and her sister sailed away. And Mary didn’t cry. She woke up in an excellent mood and she kept it for the rest of the day.

KEEP THE FAITH

He knew perfectly he had hurt John. It wasn’t easy for him either.

Sometimes he waited forever to stand out in the rain. So no one saw him crying, trying to wash away the pain. He was meant to fight alone. He was meant to be this way.  
He was nobody’s hero. He wasn’t John’s hero.

But now John was holding him without saying a word. Did that mean that he was forgiven? It was dark, no light in the living room apart from the one coming from the streetlights outside. And dark is not so frightening when you’re holding someone.  
“So, cup of tea?”  
Sherlock smiled.  
“Love to.”  
He followed John to the kitchen. He watched him for a moment until finally he had the courage to talk.  
“Do you want to… know?”  
John froze.  
“Eventually yes. But not now.”  
Sherlock approached him and touched his shoulder. He remembered the black rose. It still had thorns. He pulled away for a moment but then touched him again.  
“Thank you.”

John turned and faced him, he tried not to look at the scar on Sherlock’s forehead.  
“Will you… will you stay with me tonight?”  
“Like that night.” The detective smiled at him.

So they lied next to each other again, barely touching. Until one moment when John reached out to touch Sherlock’s hand.  
“I’m sorry. Just wanted to make sure you were here.”  
“It’s… It’s fine.”

Remember, my children. We fight alone.

Sherlock discarded that thought quickly, with a slight movement of his head. He took a deep breath and held John’s hand.

 

TOUCHED

“John, I think you’re being too hard on me.”  
“Really? ‘Cause I think quite the opposite. I’m tolerating your presence here.”  
“But you forgave my brother.”  
“I never forgave Sherlock, not in that way. I never had to. Because he never came here, day after day, offering his sympathies and lying to my face. You did.  
“John, perhaps you should give Mycroft a chance.” Said the detective with deep voice.  
John frowned and faced him.  
“Is it possible that you’re defending your brother? ‘Cause I’d be rather surprised.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer. Mycroft stood up.  
“I must go now. Doctor Watson, please, think it over.”  
Once he left, John looked at his friend.  
“Do you really think I’m being unfair?”  
“Perhaps. I’m the one you should be angry at. I made up everything. Mycroft just helped me. He appreciates you.”  
“Yes, he helped you to fool me.”  
“That’s why you should be mad at me.”  
“You know I’ve already been through that. And now we’ve decided to leave it all behind. If you want me to do the same with Mycroft, I will. But first, let me tease him a little more.”

Sherlock smiled and John smiled back. There was a silence.

“I love you.” John said. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but he couldn’t help it.  
Sherlock seemed to be embarrassed by those words.  
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…”  
“No. It’s… it’s alright.”  
“Don’t you like hearing it?”  
“It sounds strange. It feels strange.”  
“I could keep on telling you until it stopped feeling strange.”

The detective shifted in his seat.  
“John, I… I don’t know.”

“Hey. It’s fine, Sherlock. I’m not asking you for anything. When I say “I love you” it’s not because I want you. It has nothing do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I’ve seen your kindness and your strength. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You’re the one, Sherlock. And I can tell from your face that I have got you speechless for once.”

Sherlock was, indeed, speechless.

“Okay. Take your time. I’m off to my room.”  
And he almost fainted once he was alone. He couldn’t feel his legs, he felt dizzy, his throat was sore. He collapsed onto his bed and closed his eyes. What had he done? He was an idiot. Telling his best friend that he loved him and then giving him that kind of Disney film speech. Yes John, well played.

After a while ruminating about his shame, he felt the need to use the bathroom. He didn’t want to go out, but he had to. So he went downstairs and risked the chance to take a look into the living room. Sherlock wasn’t there. His coat was on the hook. So he wasn’t out. So he was in his room. And Sherlock rarely used his room. John considered it couldn’t be a good sign and it worried him more.

Sherlock still stayed in his room almost during an hour and half. At one point John approached the door and tried to listen. No sound was coming from the inside. He wasn’t playing his violin, he wasn’t conducting an experiment, apparently he wasn’t writing on his blog either. John wondered what Sherlock thought when he wasn’t doing any of those things. That was new.  
The doctor was trying to watch some TV when the door finally opened. He felt the tension growing inside him.

“Hi.” He muttered.  
Sherlock didn’t answer. He just walked next to the window and looked outside. John closed his eyes.  
Shit.  
“John?”  
The doctor almost jumped out of the armchair. He switched off the TV and turned around.  
“John, I don’t do boyfriends.”  
John blinked, clearly surprised.  
“Well, Sherlock, I don’t do boyfriends either. And frankly, I don’t think one should use the term boyfriend at a certain age.”  
“I mean…”  
“I know what you mean. I told you I’m not asking you for anything.”  
“Are we okay?” Sherlock asked fearfully.  
“Yes, Sherlock. We’re okay.” John smiled. “Want some tea?”  
“Thank you.”

John nodded and went to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, suppressing a sigh. He was going to need all his strength to get through this.

LOVE AIN'T NOTHING BUT A FOUR LETTER WORD

Things were a little bit weird for a while. It wasn’t easy for John to live with a man who had recently given him the brush off. And it wasn’t easy for Sherlock to live with a man who had declared loud and clear his love for him. But this stage didn’t last long, because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and the worry of being assaulted or kidnapped or something worse happening one or twice a month was more urgent than any kind of sentimental issue they could have at home. Because of this, eventually, things went back to normal.

However, at some point John noticed little things started to change. Like if Sherlock was giving him hints to conduct him… conduct him where? To his bed? John doubted so. But the intimate touch was there again, and the whispers in dark alleys, and the intense staring and the double meaning sentences. It was like being fifteen again, trying to get off with the girl next door. One step forward and two steps backward. And then the case in the hippodrome came and…

After three days surrounded by horses, the case was finally solved, John had only one question for Sherlock. A question he had been holding for two days now.

“So, do you like to ride?”  
Sherlock stopped and looked at him.  
“Horses? No. Not at all.”  
“Oh”.  
“Men? Occasionally”. Sherlock smirked.

John blushed violently, even more after noticing that Sherlock’s cheeks were slightly pink too. Was the detective flirting with him? Did Sherlock change his mind about relationships? What was different now? He wanted to fight back, give him an answer like and do you enjoy it? But he couldn’t say a word. So he just stayed there, open mouthed, for almost a minute before running to catch up Sherlock’s trail once more.

Sherlock thought about it in the cab on their way home. He loved John, of course he did. He spent almost three years away from him, missing him, longing for his warmth, his touch and his company. Usually he was happy with the life they had, it was fun and exciting and he wouldn’t change a thing. But still sometimes (and more often than he would like to admit) he wondered how things would be if… if they were involved at a different level.

However he was scared. Not of a relationship in a sexual meaning. He didn’t like having sex especially, but he knew what it was, how it worked, how it felt. No. he wasn’t scared of that. He was scared of love. That he didn’t know what it was.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, love was only a four letter word.

OUT OF THE WOODS

It was John’s birthday and they had spent it working hard on a new case. Somehow things had rushed by the end and Lestrade had put them into jail, just to prevent them from interfering in the police work.  
And there he was, sitting on a dirty mattress, looking up the ceiling and counting the hours.

“I have never been in jail.” John complained. “Your fault, as always. Thanks for the birthday gift, Sherlock.”  
“John, spare me your complaints. They won’t let us walk away from here. Lestrade’s team is going to do it in the wrong way, I bet that the they won’t catch the suspect on time.”  
“We’ll catch him tomorrow.”  
“No, no. He will leave England as soon as he feels the police breath on his neck.”

He turned around and took a seat next to his friend.  
“I wanted to give you something.”  
John looked up, interested.  
“Really? You?”  
Sherlock looked offended.  
“Of course. But I don’t think this is the proper place.”  
“You have it here?”  
“Well, yes, but…”  
“Give it to me, please, Sherlock. Life in jail is better with gifts, or so people under arrest say.”

Sherlock seemed to think about it for a moment, but then suddenly he leaned on John and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, but a kiss anyway. John licked his lips, thinking. And then he almost jumped on Sherlock, he framed his face with his hands and leaned until their foreheads and noses were touching. He could feel Sherlock shivering.

“I have never been kissed.”

If Sherlock was trying to distract John with those words, it failed. The blonde man tilted his head, looking for a better angle, and then kissed the detective properly. He first caressed Sherlock’s lips, and then used his tongue to part them. After hearing the words Sherlock just said, John wasn’t expecting him to kiss back so fiercely, so he had to suppress a moan when their tongues started to fight for dominance.

“For a first kiss, it was really impressive.” John said when they finally parted, breathless.  
“It wasn’t my first kiss.” Sherlock answered trying to gain his breath back.  
John frowned, confused.  
“But you just said..”  
“I have kissed other people. I’ve been acquainted with people because I wanted something from them in some way or another. But nobody had ever kissed me first. Oh, don’t pull that face. Don’t feel sorry for me.”  
“I don’t. What I was thinking is… how lucky I am.”

This time it was Sherlock who frowned in confusion.

“Look Sherlock, this, what we have, is something that happens once in a lifetime. But if this isn’t what you need, if you dare tell me this isn’t what you want then… Let’s put an end to this. Break my heart here and now, I’m asking you to. But if you really think you can love me and let me love you, and I’m talking scary and messy. If you’re ready for that… Well, if you’re in, I’m in.”  
“I’m not damaged, I don’t need to be fixed or…”

“I know. I don’t want you to change. I already told you, I love exactly what you are.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was still scared. But kissing John had been marvellous, he wanted to do it again. It occurred to him that you could be afraid of love but when love is your ally those things could change. He looked at John, who was about to faint, waiting for an answer, a very crucial answer.

Sherlock remembered his taste and also licked his lips. He wasn’t alone anymore, he hadn’t been alone for years. And he won’t be alone ever again. He thought about the best way of saying “yes, I’m in” to John’s offer and he couldn’t. So instead of saying a single word, he kissed his friend –an now lover- again and let his feelings and his lips speak for him.


End file.
